


Sprucing

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, beauty salon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 18:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil services a client’s father.





	Sprucing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aprilreign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilreign/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for aprilriegn’s “I can imagine Thranduil owning a celebrity salon and seeing a determined Sigrid dragging a reluctant new King of Dale in for a make over (Sigrid is a regular). Despite his grumpiness Bard meets the stylist halfway with a simple shave and haircut. Crack or fluff, mild attraction or infatuation. Any rating. Prompt #25 Beauty Salon.” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He just happens to be by the front desk when the bell above the door rings. The young princess of Dale marches inside, and Thranduil looks up from where he’d been reprimanding his receptionist to offer her a smile. He doesn’t miss the way Meludir all but flees the front desk, hopefully off to right the scheduling mistake he’d made. Thranduil holds all his employees to the highest standards, and in a salon so high profile that there’s a three month waiting list, it’s all the more important to keep things in order. Normally he’d have another scolding in store for Meludir’s return—such chores should be dealt with _after_ all the customers are attended. But for this particular client, Thranduil hardly minds manning the desk himself.

He straightens out to his full height rather than slipping into the chair, then stiffens as Sigrid’s company joins her through the stain glass door.

Though the new Man, as far as Thranduil knows, has never stepped foot in Thranduil’s salon before, Thranduil recognizes him instantly: Bard, the bowman, as some call him, slayer of Smaug and newly appointed king, is unmistakable. Thranduil dons his slickest smile, the sort he only wears for brand new clients, and _special_ ones at that.

It doesn’t hurt that Bard’s absurdly handsome, though it’s clear he hasn’t had his hair cut in years and he’s in sore need of a shave. His clothing isn’t particularly royal, nor is it as shabby as his pre-coronation reputation. It’s clear that _royalty_ is new to him, and wealth seems to make him uncomfortable. He glances about the salon with a pinched sort of expression, while Sigrid sweeps right to the front desk and greets, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Thranduil casually returns, trying to keep his gaze on her despite the temptation to do otherwise. Bard remains awkwardly behind her, out of the conversation. “Do you have an appointment? Although you usually prefer Tauriel, don’t you? I’m afraid she’s off today...”

“Not for me,” Sigrid chimes, then nods pointedly over her shoulder before giving Thranduil a pleading look. “I know you’re so booked up, but I want to make an appointment for my da’. I’ve been telling him to come for months, but you wouldn’t believe how difficult he is...”

“Sigrid,” Bard tells her, not quite snapping and not quite sighing. His voice is low and deep, soothing to the ears. Thranduil fixes on him and makes a quick decision, though it’s a groundbreaking one—he’s never broken his appointment-only rule before.

He keeps his eyes locked on Bard’s and all but purrs, “My stylists have a rather lengthy waiting list, you know... but for the king... _I’m_ free.” 

“Really?” Sigrid asks, her whole face lighting up—as a returning client, she knows just how rare it is for Thranduil to take any appointment himself at all. He’s longed worked himself to a higher position than that, and the only person he regularly attends to in his salon is Legolas, the rest only visiting celebrities. Bard actually looks a bit disgruntled at the prospect, but Sigrid cheers delightedly, “Thank you! Do you mind if I leave him for an hour or so? If that’s enough? I was hoping to get a bit of shopping done...”

“I shouldn’t mind at all,” Thranduil answers, already stepping out from around the desk. He gestures to the left side of his salon, into the wide space of luxury stations and fogged glass dividers. It’s fully booked, as it always is, and not a chair is empty, with two elves and one Man seated in the lobby, buried in magazines. Or at least, they were buried before Bard came in. The greasy-looking lost-cause of a Man that’s always trying to get an appointment despite Thranduil’s strict instructions otherwise is clearly eyeing Bard over the rim. Thranduil makes a mental note to have Meludir start baring him from entrance and returns attention to ushering Bard inside, drawling as though nothing’s astray, “Please, come inside.”

Sigrid gives her disgruntled-looking father a little push, and he follows where Thranduil indicates. To break the ice, Thranduil adds as they walk, “I must say, I’m quite honoured to have you in my humble salon, my king.” His tone probably betrays that he hardly thinks his salon _humble_ , but the sentiment remains.

Bard’s handsome face stains a slight pink, and he grunts as Thranduil’s heard, “You don’t need to add the title. ‘Bard’ will be fine, thanks.”

“Thranduil,” Thranduil returns, thrusting out his hand. Bard glances down at it, only to clasp his darker, thicker fingers around it. He gives a single, firm shake, then withdraws his hand, though the damage is already done; Thranduil already knows the fine touch of his skin, exactly how warm it is, and what strength lies below. 

At the back around a long divider for some privacy, Thranduil pulls out the chair of his personal station. Bard climbs gingerly inside, made to face the tall mirror and the thin counter of products set before it. Thranduil stands behind him and immediately slides long fingers into the dark waves of his hair, eliciting a tiny gasp that only Elven ears would hear. Thranduil alternates between taking in Bard’s thickly-covered scalp and grinning at him in the mirror. Bard’s hands are already gripping the arms of the chair a tad too tightly. Perhaps he isn’t used to a thorough finger-combing before a haircut, but Thranduil likes to _feel_ his canvas amidst his consultation. He enjoys brushing the fallen strands back behind Bard’s rounded ears, clearing his face and asking, “So... Bard... what shall I do for you today?”

Bard doesn’t answer right away, just shifts, looking vaguely lost. He has a stern sort of countenance, but it’s clear he feels out of place, and Thranduil quickly fills in for him. Though Thranduil usually prefers the softer lines of Elven beauty, he can certainly find a strange appeal in Bard’s rugged style. Yet he suggests, simply to keep Bard in his chair as long as possible, “Perhaps a full makeover would delight your daughter? We can do everything from waxing your legs to colouring your tips. I could even braid that beard of yours, if you like, although I’ve never understood the appeal...” He loathes to take dwarf clients—their beards take three times as long to braid as _proper_ hair, and such tasks he usually leaves to Tauriel or his other head stylists. For Bard, though the stubble might be too short, he’d try.

Bard grunts instead, “How about just a trim?”

“Only that?” Thranduil counters, now allowing his palms to graze Bard’s jaw, smoothing across the slightly ticklish outgrowth. “Perhaps I could also interest you in a shave?” Bard’s frown twitches curiously, and Thranduil adds, “You will have to forgive me, Bard, but when you come to an Elven salon, your recommendations will be for what elves find... attractive...” He says the final word with just enough of a _hint_ in it, and he isn’t particularly surprised when Bard’s cheeks darken again. 

To Thranduil’s pleasure, he nods and mutters, “Alright.”

Thranduil drags his fingers back through Bard’s dark locks a final time, then murmurs, “Very well... let us start.” He steps back from the chair, offering a hand, and Bard hesitates but takes it.

The pretence of helping Bard out of his chair falls away when Thranduil doesn’t let go afterwards, but rather tugs Bard by the slight grip towards the sinks along the wall. Three are currently in use, and Thranduil guides Bard towards the closest reclining chair. Bard climbs up and stretches down, Thranduil already combing his hair back through the cut out semi-circle. With a quick flick of the wrist, water is coming, set at the perfect temperature, and Thranduil taps a small dose of soap into his hand. This he slides back along Bard’s scalp before the water’s even full. Bard’s breath hitches, eyes darting up to Thranduil, and Thranduil holds them with a smirk. He stands close over Bard as he massages the soap in, taking far more pleasure in the intimate ministrations than usual. He can see that Bard is too. Bard’s eyes are already slightly dilated, though he doesn’t say a word of the clear chemistry between them. He doesn’t need to. Thranduil knows what’s happening; he’s seen something he wants, and he’s going to enjoy every last second of that fly being ensnared in his web. 

He kneads Bard far longer than he has to, until the suds are so large that gravity is pulling them down into the sink, and then he begins scooping the water onto Bard’s forehead and guiding it down. Bard’s eyes close, though Thranduil is careful to keep the soap away from his eyes. Then Bard opens his mouth as though to say something, but he seems to think better of it and closes his jaw again. Thranduil simply continues his business. 

When he’s finished and straightens, Bard tries to sit up, but Thranduil splays a damp hand over his chest and holds him down, purring, “Not yet, my king.” Bard’s eyes flare, and Thranduil corrects with a teasing smile, “I’m sorry... not yet, _Bard._ ”

He has to fetch a clean towel first, and he returns to neatly gather Bard’s hair and wrap it up. Normally, he would have a towel down before the client reclined, but with Bard, it’s another excuse to touch more than necessary, and he helps Bard rise again. Bard holds the bundled towel self-consciously as he follows Thranduil back to their private corner, where Thranduil spins the chair to him. Once Bard’s seated, Thranduil massages his hair through the towel again, making sure to catch as much moisture as possible, and when he unwraps the towel to arrange it around Bard’s broad shoulders, Bard’s hair is nearly straight and stained much darker. Thranduil idly runs his fingers through it a few times before he reaches for the scissors.

Just before Thranduil’s cut his first section, Bard asks, “How much are you taking off?”

Normally, a client would answer that. But there are cases where some leave it up to the stylist, and for someone as reluctant as Bard, Thranduil assures, “Not much. I’ll even it out and eliminate any straight ends, but I admit the existing length is quite dashing on you.” Bard’s eyes sharply dart to his in the mirror, and Thranduil holds them for a moment before moving on. 

For the most part, Bard is an easy client. He doesn’t wince as Thranduil slices away, as many begrudging participants do, nor does he complain at all of any tugging to his skull—something Thranduil never does but clients still like to exaggerate. He can feel Bard’s eyes on him as he moves, but that only feeds his smirk and his ego. Most of his clients are attracted to him—it’s part of why they’ll pay nearly triple for him, and he can afford to retain so few. He usually allows their crushes for the sake of his tips and reputation. It’s rare, however, that he actually feels any interest in return. 

Unfortunately, Bard isn’t the sort to need frequent appointments. Thranduil thinks of it, slipping into fantasy as he works, and imagines Bard coming in just before closing to request a trim in _other_ places. Or perhaps just a consultation, shirtless or even bare. Perhaps Dale’s king would only have time for appointments after hours, and they would result in his scrumptious frame splayed out against a mirror, his and Thranduil’s beauty mingling and their heated thrusts fogging up the surface. He imagines it would be awkward but not impossible to mount Bard in the chair, thought it might be easier to simply bend him over the front desk.

Despite Thranduil’s attempts to draw it out, the cut is over far too soon, and there’s only so much time Thranduil can waste in inspecting it. His work is always flawless anyway, but he combs it out to make sure. The scratch of the tongs against Bard’s skull seem to make a subtle shiver run through his body. When Thranduil’s finished his inspection, he leans over Bard’s shoulder to murmur into Bard’s ear, “Shall I blow this out for you?”

Bard’s reflection burns into him. But Bard mumbles, “The shave...”

Thranduil nods and reaches over Bard, deliberately not moving around the chair, so that his arm brushes along Bard’s shoulders. He has a jar of cream in his top drawer and a suitable blade beneath it, better than the new electric kind in his opinion. He uses his finger to scoop cream out of the jar and apply it to Bard’s chin, taking care of how he glides along Bard’s skin. Bard’s eyes fall closed, lips slightly parting, but his enjoyment is palpable. Thranduil makes every stroke a tease.

He lathers Bard more than necessary, then sets the jar aside and flips open his razor. He uses his free hand to gently hold the other side of Bard’s head while he works, taking care to keep Bard in place, though Bard is exactingly still for him. He never once has to still for an abrupt shift, never even comes close to nicking Bard’s sun-kissed flesh. Bard gives him implicit trust, and he rewards it in the softness of his caress. During this, Bard doesn’t even dare talk, and though Thranduil thinks of striking conversation as most of his stylists do, he falls back into the comfortable silence, instead filling in the space with his own mind. He wonders if Bard will ever be able to shave himself again without feeling the alluring ghost of Thranduil’s talented fingers.

When the shave is finally complete, every last hair removed and the remaining cream wiped away with a soft cloth, Thranduil smoothes his hands along his masterpiece and purrs, “Shall I blow you now?”

Bard’s eyes dart open. He blushes the darkest yet and parts his lips, his breath already noticeably laboured. But Bard just nods, and Thranduil fetches his drier, setting it up in a flash. It’s another excuse to touch Bard’s hair longer, and Thranduil combs it as he likes throughout the process, styling it different ways before letting it settle, and indeed, when Thranduil’s done, Bard looks more than kingly. The roughness is gone from his stunning looks, replaced with a sense of nobleness that Thranduil finds intensely compelling. At the final clicking off of his drier, Thranduil sets one hand on either of Bard’s shoulders and huskily tells Bard’s reflection, “You know, Bard... I have been known to provide home visits.” One of Bard’s eyebrow lifts, and Thranduil presses, “The new king of Dale must look his best, after all. And I offer a wide variety of services...”

The intensity on Bard’s face shatters his royal visage, replaced instead with the fierce warrior that slew a dragon. Thranduil half expects to be thrown to the floor and ravished in his own salon, but instead, Bard merely answers, “I’ll think about it.”

Then he rises from his chair and is marching away before Thranduil can push him back. Thranduil follows, quite sure that Bard only rushes to save face, possibly in the hopes of hiding the obvious erection he now sports. Thranduil’s already memorized the sight.

Thranduil allows Meludir to handle the payment, though he lingers behind the desk the entire time. Bard opts to wait outside for his daughter, casting Thranduil a final glance before departing. In Bard’s absence, Thranduil isn’t surprised to see that he’s been left a sizeable tip. 

He tells Meludir, “Now _that_ is how it’s done,” and retreats back to his station, knowing he hasn’t seen the last of Dale’s new king Bard.


End file.
